


To Lend a hand... or a Ring.

by Yeziel_Moore



Series: Dancing With Angels [10]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 01:41:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeziel_Moore/pseuds/Yeziel_Moore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The best laid plans always go awry. Death didn't rise, Castiel didn't end up aboard a ship and someone thought dead may not be quite so dead in the end... Lucifer never saw that one coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Lend a hand... or a Ring.

  
**Disclaimer:** _As much as I would love it, I don't own Harry Potter, Supernatural or Castiel. This little monster, on the other hand, is mine.  
_ **Words:** _5468._

 

* * *

After all the preparation this was the result. After all his careful planning: procuring the right town and sacrificing the old, the women and the children, even their pets; after having to deal with those disgusting and pathetic demons, delivering orders and making sure that the brain-dead idiots understood their roles. After facing another disappointment in the form of a black-haired vessel with defying blue eyes, meddlesome Winchester and a hole in his head, which  _hurt_ , damn it, even if it didn't kill him. After weakening his temporary vessel even more by using that ritual, the one to raise Death; after having his victory mere inches from him where he could almost  _taste it_ …

Nothingness. Failure.

After all his work and that was what he got: Failure! All his efforts: wasted! Dispersed like feeble strands of smoke in the face of an avenging hurricane.

The Winchesters were more than a little lucky about the fact that their little angel flashed them out of town and far away immediately. Had they stayed, for whatever reason, and they wouldn't have been more than a memory scattered to the four winds. There wouldn't have been enough left of the brothers to revive them.

Hours later, news of a giant crater where Carthage used to stand reached every corner of the world. The United States were thrown in an even deeper state of panic. Worry seeped towards the rest of the world where strange things had started happening. Only a few suspected the true. Only three humans and one falling angel knew what had really transpired there. But not even them knew what had ticked off the Devil so much that he ended up blowing the city, it was so violent that when everything was said and done there wasn't even a rock standing.  
  


* * *

  
The abandoned warehouse was just like any other warehouse in the country, maybe the world, with the added appeal of being abandoned. Graffiti marked the thin metal sheets that made up the walls and the slightly rusted door. A metallic and broken lamp hung over the closed entrance, adding to the feeling of abandonment.

The afternoon air and light of California was welcoming to the three men that had suddenly appeared in the path that reached the warehouse. The movement of their bodies denoted a seriousness and readiness not seen in normal people, the set in their features, hardened by pain and experience spoke of the same thing. These men were warriors and they were on a mission. They were Sam and Dean Winchester plus Castiel, the latter who wasn't even human. He was an angel and, in spite of the lack of emotions on his vessel's face, he was worrying and doing his best to be ready for the pain that was painted in his near future.

The three men had a brief discussion over what Castiel was going to do but the angel was stone-faced and adamant so, in the end, Dean relented and watched with regretful eyes the slim form of his friend disappear through the door, hoping against hope for Castiel's survival. In his mind and heart, though, he knew it was useless and that the possibility that this was the last time he was going to see the other was at its highest. He hated the feeling.

Minutes passed, suddenly the sound of clashing swords could be heard, before the cracks in the door and windows light up for a couple of seconds. Agonizing silence followed. The sound of footsteps couldn't be heard from outside but the shouts could, however muffled. Then more light, this time more intense, and the brothers knew that Castiel had succeeded. At what price they didn't want to know.

Hours later, when they had escaped the green room and an unwanted angel-possession, empty handed and tired, they drew as much relief as they could by thinking that, even though Castiel hadn't contacted them yet, the angel's body hadn't been anywhere in the warehouse. The relief was minimum and short-lived because, if he wasn't there, then where was he?  
  


* * *

  
The man had been minding his own business for a change. He had always possessed a knack for getting into the most ridiculous and dangerous situations, even when he was actively trying not to get into trouble. Actually, preemptive measures tended to always land him in the worst situations so far, such was his luck. This time however he hadn't gone chasing rogue werewolves, he hadn't heard a thing about vampires on the zone, he had taken care of that nasty family of ghouls last week and that skin-shedder ***** from a nearby city some time before that. Today he hadn't even opened the newspaper, precisely not wanting to see some supernatural or magical mess that needed to be cleaned up.

He should've remembered how his luck tended to run contrary to his desires.

It was around ten in the morning. Half an hour ago he had finished his morning routine, which consisted of three hours of excruciating exercises, had taken a shower and was currently enjoying a piping-hot cup of his favourite blend of tea. He was seated on a comfortable chair in the porch of his house overlooking Champlain Lake. The house was an old family heirloom from the Peverell branch of his family and since he was the last Peverell, as far as he knew, it was his.

He liked the house. Not only it was a nice building, if a bit big for one person, it also was isolated and quiet, what with his only neighbours being the inhabitants from Missisquoi National Wildlife Refuge.

The man sipped at his tea and sank even farther into his chair, strangely content with staying still and merely listening to the chirping of the birds as well as the occasional splatter that happened each time a fish jumped out of the water, careening into the air and into the water once more. Seeing the water settle itself each time was soothing in a way that only meditation had been able to accomplish for him, with the added benefit of not being boring.

Then 'it' happened.

'It' being a man who appeared out of thin air, twenty-something feet over his head level and consequently fell down on the roof of his storage shed. The unknown man was lucky that the shed was quite old and that Harry hadn't seen a reason to repair it and reinforce its structure. All the same, Harry cringed at the loud sound of wood snapping and rubble falling down. That person was going to be really sore come morning, unless he was an enemy, then he was going to stop  _being._

As it turned out, Harry didn't recognize the stranger's features. He didn't have a magical signature either, but he had some sort of strange and vaguely familiar energy which at the moment was dangerously low. It was only thanks to Harry's extensive training in recognizing energy signatures that he noticed in the first place. With a sigh Harry levitated the rubble off the man and then levitated said man into his house and the guestroom. He couldn't, in good conscience, leave the injured man or being outside to die; that didn't mean that he wasn't going to investigate. Oh no, by the time his guest recovered consciousness he was going to know everything that could be known and then some.

Hermione had really rubbed on him more than she would ever know.

True to his intentions, by the time Castiel awoke, Harry knew what, or more precisely, who his guest was and what he was going to do next. Curiously, it hadn't been all that difficult to find answers. All of them were resumed in the piece of aged scripture that was resting on one of the den's various tables. It took him some time but Harry had remembered where the feeling of familiarity came from.

_It was late at night when a shadow shaped vaguely like a man disengaged itself from the heavy shadows that covered the cobblestone street of Diagon Alley. The individual shadow was indeed a man. His name was Harry Potter, loved and hated saviour of the Wizarding World, and it was for that very same reason that he was sneaking around at three a.m. instead of doing his business in the morning like any sane person would._

_He looked around once, only seeing the dark and covered windows of the stores, and hurried off towards Gringotts. The white structure glowed under the stars with almost the same intensity than it did at day, its doors open like a golden maw. Gringotts truly didn't sleep, always conducting business, even during war times. The only time Gringotts had closed its doors it had been during the last Goblin Revolt. During that time you would do better if you were to try to infiltrate the White House, on broad light, waving a bazooka around and wearing a T-shirt that proclaimed: "The Best Terrorist Ever!". It would hurt less too._

_He was received by a wide awake and aware goblin and lead towards his account manager, he had an appointment after all._

" _Lord Potter, what can I do for you?" If the goblin was bothered by the hour it didn't show in any way; it was difficult to say, though, as every goblin was rude and had a very to-the-point attitude._

_Rudeness or not, Harry still offered a slight bow to show respect. His attitude had gained him, if not friends, at least convenient allies in the Goblin Nation, which was awesome considering the stunts he and his friends had pulled during the last months of the war. It helped that he was their wealthiest client._

" _I came to receive the last of my inheritance."_

_Harry was twenty one and Lord of many old families. It was a bit abnormal to receive an inheritance so late but nor unheard of. Usually it happened on request, and Godric Gryffindor had requested twenty one as the one and only condition for his heir to open his vault._

_The goblin nodded but Harry wasn't finished. "And about that thing we talked about last time?"_

" _Everything has been arranged. You will have to visit our sister branch on the States to finalize the security details and it will work as a nexus with us."_

" _Good, it's much appreciated." He didn't say anything else, knowing that it wouldn't have been appreciated by them. The only thing goblins liked was gold and he had paid in advance._

_The ride to Gryffindor's vault was longer than usual due to the fact that it was the one of the first four vaults to be created. That was more than a bit mindboggling. The inside of the vault was impressive too, once they got around the many, many and very deadly security measures. It made Harry glad that Voldemort hadn't hidden his horrocrux into Slytherin's vault. Inside there was gold, of course, lots of gold and a plethora of other interesting things but it was the red and golden trunk that held Harry's attention. He directed his steps towards it and after a bit of tinkering, losing some more blood and magic, it opened._

_The first thing Harry noticed was that it was enlarged, not by much but enough to hold thrice the amount of things that it should. His second thought was that it should've belonged to Rowena instead of Godric as it was full of books. Only then he saw the letter. He had no idea of what the material was but it most definitely wasn't parchment. Probably some kind of animal skin, he thought vaguely as he picked it up and carefully turned it around. He almost dropped it as he read what was written on the outside:_

' _To the Master of Death.'_

_He gulped nervously but plunged on, not quite as deterred as he should probably be, had he been anyone else._

' _I am sure you are wondering who I could possibly be. Before answering that question I feel I must point out that you are not yet ready to believe the truth. Nevertheless, I will tell you. My name is Raziel and I am an Angel of the Lord...'_

Raziel had been right; Harry hadn't believed a word at first. That changed eventually, when he came around to reading Godric's Journals. Raziel, 'Keeper of Secrets', 'Angel of Mysteries', both epithets were spot on. The Archangel had been the closest to God -and that last one still boggled Harry's mind- so naturally he/she/it knew everything that was said in presence of God, as well as everything that God deemed suit to tell His confidant about. And Raziel had written Harry a letter containing many of those truths. Well, the letter had been written for the Master of Death, who apparently was destined to appear on Godric's line. If it isn't clear by now that Harry is the Master of Death then you need to wash your ears pal.

So now here Harry was, waiting in the den for his guest angel to wake up. If he hadn't messed up his estimations then it would happen soon and if his intel was correct then the other's curiosity will drive him to look him out. It took another five hours before the angel found his way back into consciousness and twenty more minutes before his hunched form leaned heavily on the doorway. Harry looked up from the book he was reading but didn't make any move towards the injured angel, knowing that it wouldn't be appreciated at the moment, if ever.

"Before we start playing twenty questions I suggest you take a seat," he signalled to the comfortable looking sofa across from him, "and maybe a bite, I'm sure you're hungry."

Castiel hesitated for a second before a wave of agonizing pain shot through his vessel's -now his- body, his vision darkened for a fraction of a moment and the room started spinning around. He didn't realize he had started falling until the green-eyed stranger was besides him, supporting his weight and obviously keeping him upright. Castiel let the stranger guide him to the vacant seat and help him down without jostling his tender, now mortal, flesh. He blinked slowly and tried to follow the stranger's movements, feeling strangely light-headed and detached all of sudden. Next thing he knew a glass of sweetened water was right under his nose and on his lips.

"Drink," was the clear order, so he took a sip, right before trying to gulp the entire content of the glass with the desperation of a man that had been submitted to the scorching heat of the dessert. "Slow down," chided the stranger and now the glass was out of reach. He whined low on his throat.

The water seemed to help though, as Castiel's gaze focused a bit more and a flush of embarrassment took prominence on his cheeks. He hadn't whined, had he?

"Drink it in sips or you'll make yourself sick," instructed Harry and put the glass on Castiel's hands. Then he retook his seat and smiled in satisfaction when Castiel followed his instructions. "I'm Harry by the way."

"Castiel," was the curt reply. Harry nodded and didn't comment on the rudeness. He had experience with socially inept people (himself) and with people who shouldn't have been allowed into society in the first place (Severus Snape). Castiel fortunately fell into the first category.

"You've been unconscious for almost a week," he informed. "I fed you regularly but soup and water is hardly filling so take it easy." Castiel opened his mouth to protest but... "And yes, you do need sustenance, or at least you need it now."

"How do you..."

"...know?" finished Harry. Castiel nodded. "My ancestor is Godric Gryffindor." Understanding lit in Castiel's eyes.

Now, for those who don't know the story, the time of the founders of Hogwarts was, truly, a Dark Time. Not so much because of the Witches Hunts but because of The Demons War. That time was a time when demons were a lot more present than nowadays. The cracks that led to Hell were more numerous, widened by the superstitious people that more often than not offered themselves to the monsters. That and the Devil Gates that are now spread around the world were just being built, and so the evilness was barely kept at bay thanks to annual, sometimes by-annual, rituals and sacrifices.

In those turbulent times it was natural for some ambitious character to try to take advantage of the opportunity. They didn't succeed very often as then the then church was as powerful as they claimed to be. But one did. His name was lost to history but he succeeded were many others had failed. He was smart. He knew that confronting the Church would get him killed on sight, so he worked around it. He searched for many, many years until he found a crevice, an insignificant fissure not large enough to even be a window-cell to Hell and therefore not noticed by the specialist that searched for that kind of thing. This unnamed person created one of the foulest rituals in existence, which is presumed lost as well, and in the end he managed what he wanted: he expanded the insignificant crevice into a proper Gateway to Hell.

The resulting disaster was a massacre.

It got so bad that at some point wizards, witches and holy warriors ended up fighting side by side and watching each other's backs. But in the end it was Godric Gryffindor who succeeded where everyone else had failed: he contacted Heaven and struck a deal with an angel who was willing to lend a hand to humanity. And so the war, which had been tilting towards the demons, resumed with renewed fervour. Finally, and after many more deaths, the fissure was closed and the first Demon Gate was created.

Unfortunately, the fact that the angel had listened to a wizard and not to a Holy Man was not forgotten by the church. The animosity returned and the burnings resumed with renewed hatred. In spite of this, friendship had bloomed in the battlefield in the form of Godric and Raziel. They had parted in good terms and Raziel kept watch over the magical human, going as far as visiting a couple of times. In one of those visits Raziel left behind a message destined to one of Godric's descendants.

This piece of history was eventually lost to time except for very few journals and books. One of those journals being Godric's, which remained sealed with the rest of his things until a descendant could claim them. And claim them Harry did.

"I know what you are, I know what is going on and I know how to help you out," with this said Harry took something from one of his many hidden pockets and deposited on the table.

It was a ring, a silver ring with a milky white, rectangular stone in the centre. Castiel recognized it immediately. His hands clenched and, had he been powered, the glass would've cracked in a thousand pieces.

"How?" he asked hoarsely, barely able to process what his eyes were seeing.

"I have my sources," Harry said and deliberately moved his right hand over his left one, showing off the golden ring with a pitch-black stone imbedded into it. If you looked closely enough you could see a golden design in the stone: an equilateral triangle, with a circle inside and divided in two by a vertical line.

Castiel recognized that ring too as demonstrated by the widening of his eyes. "You?"

Harry nodded. "You must understand that this ring," he tapped the silver one, "is a loan. When everything is said and done I will call it back and it will heed my call because I'm its Master's Master."

The information was simple and clear but Castiel heard the warning in the words: don't try to keep it because you  _can't_. And he wouldn't because he didn't want to find out what the ring may do to him, or worse, Dean.

The angel nodded. "I understand."

"Good." Harry then pushed Death's rings towards Castiel, who pocketed it. "There is something else but first eat something, you'll need your strength and starving yourself won't help any."

With a sigh Castiel grabbed a toast and nibbled on it. It wasn't very tasty but then again, what did he knew of human food? The Master of Death apparently could read minds for he said with an amused voice:

"It tastes better with jam," he pointed to it, "or butter, or cheese, or ham, unless angel are vegetarians, then not to the ham," he pointed to each of the offered foods. Castiel gingerly picked a slice of cheese from the little pile and put it on his toast.

"Angels don't eat, why would we be vegetarians?"

Harry's lips twitched but he waved the question aside and served some tea that had been kept hot thanks to a nifty rune carved in the teapot. He served one to the angel who took it without question. A but load of sugar later and Harry was ready to continue. He bended over a little and lifted a small backpack with obvious expansion charms on it as attested by the way his entire arm disappeared inside it.

"Aha!" he cried. In his right hand he now had a sheathed dagger.

He rested it on the table in direct sight to Castiel who recoiled so fast when he saw it that he splashed his tea everywhere. The almost humane angel hissed at the burns in his hands but didn't take his eyes from the weapon, not even as he abandoned his cup in favour of the handkerchief Harry was offering.

"I thought all Spirit Blades had been destroyed," accused Castiel, now more wary than ever.

"Most were. A few survived though, in particular those that were never used in the first place."

Spirit Blades had once been a terrible threat. Blades that didn't cut the flesh but went directly for the soul, or whatever form of energy that occupied its place, like grace. Fortunately the secret to make them had died with the blacksmith that created them. But before he died he managed to create a dozen swords and at least twice as many daggers, all of them different in design except for the runes that littered the deadly blade. The existence of Spirit Blades was another black spot of history, carefully blackened so it may never happen again; many souls had been destroyed by the cursed blades and it had thrown the circle of reincarnation through a loop, one from which it had only recently recovered.

Not all blades were able to completely obliterate souls, however. Only the swords had the capability. That didn't mean that daggers weren't dangerous, they didn't destroy but they damaged and treatment for a damaged soul was very difficult to come by, especially for humans. An angel could be healed but that too depended on how much time had passed and for how long the blade had remained lodged the injury. They were fearsome things.

After a long, tense silence, Castiel spoke. "Why are you trying to give me this? I'll destroy it."

"I know and I don't care. I would appreciate it actually." Harry admitted. "But tell me, how do you plan to force Lucifer back into the cage?"

Castiel had been asking the same question to himself for a while and he hadn't yet come up with a suitable answer or an answer at all. He understood what the male in front of him was implying, though.

"You want me to use it on him." He needed to be sure.

"Yes, you or the Winchesters, I don't care who. I would've said that you're a safer choice but right now the three of you are quite in the same boat." Harry was referring of course to the fact that Castiel was, by all intents and purposes, human.

Silence descended on them. Harry didn't mind, he picked his book again and let the angel consider his options. He was almost one hundred percent sure of what the celestial being would chose, Harry was a warrior too and he had fought a hopeless battle once. You always had to make difficult choices, no matter how much you hated it. Castiel was indeed thinking along those lines, of his options. In the end he came to the same conclusion: no matter how much he hated the mere thought, he would do it, because it evened the impossible odds a bit and they seriously needed it.

Castiel stomach rumbled then. Harry looked up, his eyebrows raised at the monstrous sound while Castiel busied himself by trying to figure out the reason for the sound, looking at his belly with a confused expression.

"Well, it seems to me like you're hungry," announced Harry dryly. "Just as well as it's almost dinner time."

Indeed it was. They hadn't noticed but their little chat had taken up more time than previously thought and the sky was darkening outside. In a matter of minutes Harry took care of the food for him and his guest.

During the course of the meal he amused himself by watching the angel's reaction to his first food as a human. One word: hilarious.

By the time they were done Castiel looked almost ready to drop. Harry would've let him go back to bed then, but there was one more thing he wanted to discuss with the angel. He was about to speak, took a breath to do so... when Castiel's forehead smacked on the hard table with a dull 'thud'.

"Or maybe not," he muttered to himself, hardly able to keep himself from laughing. He did laugh when he saw the red mark on the poor guy's forehead. "Off to bed you go." With a shake of his head Harry carried the angel back to the guest room and proceeded to finish his healing of him.

It had taken Harry all week but finally his potions and spells had done their job. The most difficult thing had been measuring the exact amount he could give the drained angel as vessels always were muggles. That is not to say that potions didn't work on muggles. They do, because potions in itself have magic, it just takes twice the amount of time to heal as muggles don't have the necessary magic to boost the process from slow to almost instantaneous. Another problem is that after feeding a potion to a muggle you have to wait for the substance to flush itself out of you patient's body, or else you risk a lethal overdose. Not one of the pleasantest ways to go.  
  


* * *

  
The next day Castiel was ready to go back to the Winchesters. Despite Harry's best efforts, he still looked a bit tired and many of his bruises remained as Harry had been more concerned with broken bones and internal bleeding to take much notice about them. But it would've to do and Castiel wasn't complaining, he was actually pretty grateful and said so. Being wary of another was no excuse for being intentionally rude, even he knew as much.

"'S not a problem, so don't think about it. Here," he gave the angel a plain-looking dagger, "you don't want to forget about that, do you?"

Castiel looked at the simple and unassuming dagger, which had the same length as the Soul Blade, and then at Harry. "This is  _it_?" A nod. The angel almost dropped the innocuous weapon in his surprise and repulsion; instead he curled his fingers tightly around the sheath. "How?"

"Illusions can take you to places where your senses cannot, don't you think so too?" Was Harry's roundabout reply. Castiel understood anyway.

"This is a  _portkey_ ," he handed a half-way used pencil to the bewildered angel. "It's better than what most wizards regularly use," he said in his defence, "anyway, just say the name of your human and it'll take you to Robert Singer's place. Oh! And read this," he pushed a leather-bound book into the angel's arms. The title read:  _'The Lord of the Rings: The fellowship of the Ring'_. Castiel tilted his head and looked at Harry with confusion clear in his face. "Frodo's misfortune may give you an idea on how to use that dagger in the best way possible. ****** "

Castiel didn't understand but he nodded anyway. "Thank you, for this and..." he thought back to his healed injuries and the ring that was burning a hole into his pocket and a certain dagger he didn't want to think about, "for everything."

Harry looked surprised for a split second before beaming a true smile to the fallen angel. "You're welcome Castiel. Now go, the boys are worried."

Castiel didn't hesitate, with a firm "Dean Winchester" he was out of Harry's hair and once again in the middle of a war that would decide the future of humanity as a whole. The only difference was that this time he brought with him a real solution, no more wild chases for an uncaring Father, or half-assed guesses. They had a chance.

"You didn't say anything about the Hallows to him," a new voice interrupted the melancholic silence that Castiel's departure had left.

Harry turned around only to come face to face with a familiar face. He was short in stature, with a lean body that didn't get fat in spite of all the sweets he consumed, with blond hair and golden eyes now that he wasn't hiding from either humans or angels. One eyebrow was arched in question but no other emotion was visible on his handsome features.

He shrugged in response. "I couldn't do that to the guy."

The blond frowned slightly and pointed out the glaring failing in that reasoning: "You did it to me."

"Yeah, I did," Harry exhaled a breath, "but you were almost dead and your loyalties were nonexistent as was your faith. Exposing you to the Master of Death's power and as a consequence forcing your loyalty onto me didn't do you any worse. Castiel, on the other hand..." Harry trailed off.

"He would die," finished Gabriel and gave a sigh of his own.

Angels were beings of loyalty and faith, losing one of them more often than not ended in a fallen brother or sister, losing both was lethal. End of the story. Gabriel's loss had been gradual and he had been strong enough to resist the constant pull of death for many millennia. By the time he had found the Winchester brothers the first time he already had one foot on the proverbial grave. When his older brother stabbed him with his own sword he had been barely hanging by the last threads of his loyalty to his family, his faith long gone. Lucifer had mercilessly cut those threads. However, Harry had healed him and the forced loyalty had been enough for a stubborn son of a bitch like him to live again.

Castiel was nothing like him though. The guy was made of faith and loyalty, he lived by them and breathed them as one breathes air, and both had taken a heavy hit when notice of God's desertion reached his ears. Fortunately or not, the young angel had been loyal to Dean for a long time before then, so it hadn't been too much of a stretch to put his loyalty and faith onto the human. It was enough to keep him alive at least.

Harry and Gabriel had planned on lending the Hallows to Castiel, to help him hide from Lucifer so the angel could stab him without being seen or felt. But lending him the Hallows had its risks. Namely that the same that happened to Gabriel would happen to Castiel. And shifting loyalties again, so out of the blue, for an unknown entity?

"Yeah, he would die."

Gabriel hummed. "Well, let's hope that your illusions are as good as you say."

"They are!"

"Of course, of course," said the obnoxious being.

"Shut it, Gabe," was the sulky reply.  
  


* * *

  
A month later a package appeared on Harry's doorstep. It contained a silver ring with a rectangular, white gem in the middle. It also contained a half-melted and broken dagger; the point of the dagger nowhere to be seen. A folded note was resting on top of both items. Harry picked that first, unfolded the paper and snickered. Gabriel, who was hovering over his shoulder, howled in laugher and maybe some relief.

The note consisted of only two lines:

" _We won. The book was most informative."_

 

**Author's Note:**

>  ***** Harry is referring to a shapeshifter but, as he doesn't have any contact with hunters, he doesn't know the right terminology.
> 
>  ****** In the 'Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring', Frodo is stabbed on the shoulder by the leader of the Nazgûl, the Ringwraits, a foul creature that was once a man. He was later healed but he almost died and it was discovered that a great deal of his worsening state was caused by a fragment of the sword that had been purposely left behind in the wound.  
>  Harry here is giving a(nother) hint to Castiel: that of stabbing Lucifer and breaking the dagger so a fragment of the cursed blade remains, forever hindering him and constantly weakening him. It's not like the Cage has a healer or something waiting for the Devil to come back.


End file.
